Imagine Sam Winchester
by glass-jars
Summary: 2nd person present tense. Possessive/controlling language. Essentially a character study of Sam from Lucifer's POV. Sexual but not graphic.


Imagine Sam Winchester.

You can picture him, yes? Twenty-something years old, getting ready to continue on with a law degree, tall and willowy, without being scrawny. Broad shoulders and a defined brow, but his face itself is delicate and his waist tapers thin. What an interesting contrast.

You can see the way his mouth lifts on one side when he thinks something's funny—can imagine his dimples and the way his eyes crinkle, and he kind of looks to the side and downward. Almost shy. But not really. "Flirtatious" is like his default setting.

You can see how he leans forward to listen intently to whomever he's speaking with. He always seems to be interested in anything anyone has to say. The way he rests his elbows on the table, the way his shoulders hunch. The way, when someone says something he likes, his teeth show in a silly grin. The way his entire body contributes to laughter—he throws his head back and exposes the length of his throat, falling back against his seat, leaning back forward and putting his hand to his face, dissolving into more tame giggles. Interesting.

You can imagine it because you've seen it. You see it through the eyes of your subjects. And he doesn't suspect a thing. Spends time with this girl he clearly harbors fond feelings for, unaware that you have Azazel tracking his every movement. And you just can't help but to focus on him and nothing else when yellow eyes have a clear view.

You think how lovely he is, for a _human_. (And if you had a vessel to speak aloud with, that word would be spit out like a burnt kernel of rice.) But his soul. Oh his soul. So tempting, so pure and ready to be destroyed.

Oh and his _body_. You don't mind the appearance of humans, really. You like to look at them because truly, they are attractive in a strange, underdeveloped way. Something about their fragility appeals to you. Something about how big and strong he could be, but also how broken he could be if you wanted.

And you _do_ want. You want to take one of your future vessels—the middle-aged man with the dead family, perhaps. Sturdy and tall and handsome and non-threatening but with the potential to be dangerous. You want to take that vessel, and you want to weave and flirt and prod and goad and flatter Sam Winchester until you can distract him from his perfect girlfriend (She'll be dead soon, anyway.) and you want to charm him into coming home with you—with Nick—and you want to dominate him because you would have the power to do so and he has one of the most submissive spirits you've ever seen.

You want to explore his body (your perfect vessel) with fingertips and mouth and tongue—his pretty little mouth a pink platitude brought to life, floppy soft hair and a spattering of moles across his skin because God tripped and speckled him with paint when He made his image, dimples and big hands with delicate fingers, and teasing eyes with the strangest shade of hazel—they remind you of the eclipses you sometimes see from your Cage, bursts of warm light peeking out from the black disc of the moon, darkening the sky to that gray blue. And how terribly full of clichés you are, for his sake.

But you want to devour him and worship him. He's special. You want to drag Sam Winchester down with you, want him to Fall for you. You want to leave a possessive trail of bite marks up the soft skin of his neck and you want him to scratch his name into your sides with blunt nails and you want to make his mouth swell from too much kisses because those lips beg to be bruised and bled and sucked on.

You want to tangle your hand in his hair and pull his head back to get a better grip on his throat with your teeth. You want him to lock his legs around your waist and get him squirming and breathless and mewling underneath you—trapped in the prison of your arms planted beside his head. Want to see his face contort and his eyes roll and his mouth just open enough to pant shallowly, want to pull at his wrist tight enough to leave a mark when he reaches up to cover his blush. Want to make him gasp and writhe—want him to lose control of himself. You want to dictate his every move and sound.

When he squeezes his eyes shut tight with his teeth grit, you want to grab his jaw (still so smooth) in your hands and command him to open his eyes, and you want him to do as you say because it's in his nature and he's so conditioned to follow orders and he's so easy to control despite his size.

You imagine all of this.

The way his arms would wrap around your shoulders to hold tight and the way he would grunt your (Nick's) name and the way his back would arch and the way he'd press his mouth wet and half-open against your collar as if to bite but wouldn't quite use his teeth.

And you then imagine how it would be to claim him completely as yours.

To pump him full of your Grace and Essence 'til his already bright soul burned with the cold fire of the Morningstar. To enter every crack and crevice and pinprick and gash in his body and spirit, until you were just as much a part of him as his voice or his breath or his clumsiness. A sweet connection, where you know every inch of him and he cleans the tar from your Soul (Is it a Soul, you wonder, or just the core of your Grace?) and takes it into his own.

You want to break him and begrime him. You want to defile him until he is as flawed as the rest of his pathetic race, but still so much better than those hairless apes because he belongs to you in every possible meaning and connotation of the word and you want to show him how wonderful your universe can be. Take his inhibitions and shatter them. Snap his mind into seven hundred pieces and hide it all under that perfect body and perfect smile. Want to pass him off as completely normal, but hear his screaming in the lining of his blood vessels because you and him are so alike.

But you want to do it with his consent. The thought of him saying "no" is painful but the thought of taking him without permission is so terrible to you that the thought never crosses your mind. As if you could take him without a "yes." Not possible.

You want to seduce him. Finally put your silver tongue to good use. Beguile him and spread honeyed words through his brain. Teach him what it's like to let the Devil in. (Teach him that it's the most perfect feeling he'll ever know, having you complete his existence. You are meant for each other, after all.)

Sam Winchester touches his girl lightly and gently, leaves the room to—presumably—use the bathroom. You watch him leave, and if you had a body you would grin to yourself because he'll be yours in just a few years. All yours.


End file.
